Hidden Things in Unusual Places
by An Extremely Agitated Hedgehog
Summary: Inside: In an apocalyptic wasteland, a former empire muses about the past and runs into an old acquaintance. Apocalypse AU. M for implied things.


_Yeah, I know, I know, I promised you all a goofy story about France, and I still will write that, but this idea has been rolling around in my head for a long time, originally as a longer piece, so I decided just to write down a small bit of it as a oneshot._

 _So, enjoy your apocalypse AU, I guess._

* * *

Hidden Things in Unusual Places

A Oneshot

All around him, the world was dead. Just dead. With no grass or living things of any kind to hold it down, the loose dust obscured the view from more than a few feet away, but Alfred knew what was out there: Nothing. Sand and dust and great hulking ruins of his empire scattered forever across the wasteland. A man could lose himself in this emptiness. Maybe that's what Alfred was trying to do. Even _he_ didn't know.

He also didn't know why he was still alive. He should be dead. America had ceased to exist a long time ago. But here he was, wandering through the remnants of his former glory. All gone now, of course. Maybe somewhere out there was someone, one person probably, who was senile enough to still think that the good old US of A was a thing. That was probably it. One old fool who was still alive for the sole purpose of spiting him. The universe hated him, it always had. Ever since he'd been small, it had taken away everything from him. And then gave it back, just to rip it out of his hands once again, laughing manically all the while.

Everything was gone. His magnificent land, his people, all of the Nations. Arthur. Arthur was gone. Disappeared one day on the wind. Just one more victim of Alfred's self-destruction. Just like everyone else.

 _Alfred, you bloody moron. Don't cry._

 _Please no! Don't leave me alone. You bastard! Don't ... don't go, I—_ But then he was gone. His smile, that small, sad, pained thing, seemed to linger for a second in the air where he had just a second ago stood.

All of Europe had been decimated, but Britain had gotten it the worst. It just had the bad luck of being a little island smack dab in the middle of two global-mega-super powers. And he was the one thing that the Bastard could take from him. Alfred hadn't cared about himself at that point. It was selfish, he knew that; the Bastard could have destroyed the whole of his country and he wouldn't have given a damn. But he'd found his weakness, the sore spot in his impenetrable defenses. A handful of nukes later, and Britain, his brother, had become so much rubble. The push of a button, and a Nation had died.

The whole of Europe was shocked, to say the least, and found themselves in a rather tricky situation. They were now caught in the middle of the deadliest war in history, and sooner or later, someone was going to get hurt. But that was fine. All fine. Because the Bastard had his own weak spot. If he could take away the one person that Alfred maybe possibly cared about on this planet, then he would return the favor.

He hadn't killed her. He wasn't sure if he could even do that; killing Nations was a tricky business, because you had to kill the very notion of the country itself. But oh, had he made her wish that she was dead. He'd taken a knife and cut right across the center of her pretty face, which was sure to leave a hell of a scar, a big one, so that every time the Bastard gazed at her, all he would see was Alfred. And that wasn't all he'd done. Oh no. There'd been more. So much more than that.

Maybe _that_ was the reason why. Why the world was dead. Why he was trudging through a barren wasteland now, instead of chilling with Mattie and watching the TV. Heck, he'd even settle for hockey now if that's what he wanted to watch. But no. He was gone too.

 _It's the end, Al. It's finally over, eh?_

Either way. That had been a mistake. One that he had never been forgiven for. After that, the war had become anything but cold. It had been over in a matter of months. He didn't even remember who had fired first. But someone had. Someone had given the first order to press the button. To kill everyone who got in the way of their endless vendetta. And, inevitably, it had ended in... Nothing. Just nothing.

Everywhere he walked now, it was silent. So quiet. Alfred hated the quiet more than anything. It left him alone with his thoughts. It was terribly difficult to distract yourself when the only thing in your somewhat limited line of sight was dust. Dust and more dust. Occasionally he ran across people in the sand, but most just kept their heads down and didn't say anything to him. He'd run across a few bodies, too. Bodies stretched out in the sand as if reaching for something. Water, maybe. Whatever it had been, they certainly hadn't been able to grab it.

A shadow appeared in the dust then. Larger than a person, much larger. Alfred wondered just what it could be. Slowly, above the wind, a sound caught his ear, something he hadn't heard in a long time: an engine. It was old, audibly putt putting along. But it was definitely a vehicle of some kind. Alfred walked towards it, more curious than anything. And the machine trundled nearer to him. Eventually, it got close enough that Alfred could make it out through the choking dust.

It was a cobbled-together monstrosity; seemingly made out of the parts from several very different vehicles. The cab in the front looked like it had come from a truck maybe, but one of the wheels was definitely a little small, which made it tilt at an odd angle. Then the back looked like the frame of a delivery van, but the actual siding had long since disappeared, and had been replaced by a green canvas cover that flapped in the wind at the points where it wasn't quite secured to the frame. Wires were visible and seemed to wrap around the whole thing like a spider's web. A Frankenstein's creation if he ever saw one.

The Creation was moving slowly enough that someone was able to walk besides it, and as Alfred squinted through the gust of dusty wind that had chosen that moment to swirl into his face, he saw that the figure carried something long in his hands. A gun. It must have been. What else in the world was that distinctive shape? He should turn around now, and just run; he'd heard what had happened to people who approached strange vehicles with armed occupants. None of it was good. But they were far too close to have not spotted him by now, and could easily outrun him with their Creation. So he stopped moving, trying to be non-threatening.

They kept coming closer, until he could see the Gunner's face, or lack thereof, as his eyes were concealed behind a pair of red-tinted goggles, and the rest of his face obscured by a large dust-mask. Though he couldn't see his mouth, his cheekbones crinkled under his goggles. He was smiling. He fingered the long Assault Rifle in his hands and casually pointed it in Alfred's direction.

"Hands up", he commanded in a gritty, sand-filled voice, and Alfred obeyed. Two other men emerged from the cab of the Creation, both considerably less armed. One had what looked like a baseball bat with barbed wire tied around it—Alfred shuddered. What a way to ruin his memories of the best sport in the world—and the other had a rather sharp axe. This was not good. He could have maybe taken out one or two of them, but not three. Not as weak as he was.

The three men surrounded him, and the Gunner nodded. "Check him", he said, and the other two began patting him down. Looking for weapons. They dug through the pockets of his large coat and pulled up his old, deteriorating cowboy hat. They wouldn't find any there, though. Satisfied, the other two pulled back, and the Gunner pointed the rifle at Alfred's face. "Get in the back", he ordered, and Alfred complied, climbing into the canvas back of the Creation. They closed the flap behind him, and he heard the sound of clinking metal. They were locking it.

Now he understood. They were slavers. They were going to find the nearest big shot who eked out an existence on the pain of others, and sell him. Then he'd spend a very long time doing back breaking labor so that some fat bastard could live without working a day in his life. People never changed, did they? Fuck. This was not good.

It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness of the cargo hold, "cargo" in this instance meaning people. But slowly, he came upon the realization that the back of the Creation was almost empty. It bounced freely, hardly held down by any weight at all. It almost seemed as if he was the only one here...

No, wait. There was someone else. A figure was huddled in the corner, closer to the cab. It was quite large, possibly made larger by the tattered, muddy coat wrapped around it. Alfred couldn't make out its face, however, partially because of the dark but also because most of its head was obscured by a large scarf that seemed to be... what was that color? Yes, Alfred saw it now: pink. Wait a moment. He knew someone who had a scarf like that. Someone who he never wanted to see ever again. But it couldn't be... no way, no how.

The figure looked up then, towards Alfred, who had to stop himself from crying out. Icy blue eyes stared back at him, filled with an unmistakable cold fury. If looks could kill, Alfred would be dead. But it was impossible. He couldn't be here! It must be a mistake, his mind just playing tricks on him. There was simply no way. No way at all.

" _You_ ", the figure said simply, in the thickest Russian accent that Alfred had ever heard. There was no mistaking it now. The universe had gone far beyond hated him, it had royally fucked him now. Because Alfred was stuck in the back of a truck with Ivan Braginsky.

"Oh no".

Braginsky cracked his knuckles, grimacing. Alfred noticed at that moment that there was something unusual about him. Well, more unusual than normal, he supposed. Oh, yes, Alfred remembered now: It was his smile, or lack thereof. Braginsky had always smiled, even when he was threatening to slice off your ear with a very dull knife. Even when _his_ ears were the ones being threatened. Almost every moment of every time that Alfred had seen him, he had been smiling. But now that vital expression that simply _made_ him Braginsky was gone, vanished. And god, was it terrifying.

The back of the Creation was too small for him to stand, but Braginsky scooted closer to Alfred none the less, taking his time, probably enjoying the look of sheer terror on Alfred's face. "Help! Someone", Alfred shouted, "I'm being attacked by a 200-pound bear! Someone please help".

"Do you know what best thing about nuclear apocalypse might be?" Braginsky asked, one corner of his mouth twisting up into a not-quite smile, but getting closer. Pulling out a small switchblade from god-knew where, he held it against Alfred's cheek.

"No idea", he said, trying his hardest to recapture some of his old swagger, and failing miserably.

The blade dug a little deeper, drawing a few drops of blood. "It is not so much that no one hears you scream, but more like no one cares".

Twenty years ago, maybe even ten, Alfred could've punched him, would have punched him, and sent him flying into the next week. But his super strength, that one thing that had been so much of a bother, and yet also somehow very useful, for his whole life up until then, had disappeared. Gone, poof, just like his country, up in nuclear smoke. He wouldn't have been able to get a good punch in, anyway, for Braginsky was behind him now, gripping him in a head-lock.

"Listen, dude", said Alfred, trying to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. "Why don't we, like, talk about this, or something? You know, have a little focus group, work out our problems, things like that?"

"Not a chance", said Braginsky, an inch away from his ear. "Not after what you did to Bela".

"Wait. That's what you're mad about? Not like, killing all of your people and destroying your country with nuclear bombs?"

" _Nyet,_ I am mad about those things as well. But this is not why I hate you most". His grip around Alfred's neck was beginning to loosen, and he circled back around him, though the knife was still pressed against his cheek. Maybe he had changed his mind about choking him right now. Good. If he could get him to relax, then maybe he could overpower him. It'd be tricky, but Alfred had a few tricks up his sleeve.

"Where is she, anyway?" He asked. "I thought you two were attached at the hip". _In more ways than one_ , he added to himself.

The knife pressed harder again. That had not been the right thing to say. Alfred sucked in a breath, quickly, and held it, praying that his mouth hadn't gotten entirely away from him again.

"She is dead".

 _Please, Brother. End it! Please!_

"Oh..."

Alfred didn't really know what to say. Was here anything to say to that? "I'm sorry", he muttered. The knife relaxed, left his face entirely, and Braginsky sat down next to him, as if all of his fight was simply gone.

"You should be", he mumbled, "It is your own god damn fault".

They sat in silence for a while. Alfred tried to wipe the blood off of his face, but he was pretty sure that he'd just succeeded in smearing it. It stung a little, the cut on his cheek. It would probably get infected, and then pus would get all over and be disgusting and shit and it would hurt like hell, but that was fine. That was nothing compared to how shitty he was feeling. How big of a mistake he'd made. Braginsky didn't need to cut him, he'd already ripped his heart into a bunch of bloody, messy pieces.

Shit...

Shit.

"I'm ... I'm sorry". He didn't know what else he could possibly say.

" _Spasibo_ ", Braginsky whispered, almost like he could barely get the word out. "But I still cannot forgive you".

"I honestly wasn't expecting you to".

Silence...

"Okay, you know what?" Alfred began, "We need to get the hell out of here. I can't stand it anymore."

"Just smash truck to pieces", Braginsky shrugged. "This is what you usually do, _da?_ "

"Yeah, well, your _nuclear bombs_ kind of destroyed my amazing-special-awesome super strength, so I'm gonna go with no on that option". The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He shouldn't have told him that. Telling the enemy your number one weakness was exactly what you were _not_ supposed to do. Him and his big mouth.

"Speak for yourself, _Comrade Genocide_ ".

"Wow. That's so very creative", Alfred began clapping sarcastically.

The other corner of Braginsky's mouth tilted upwards, into a real smile this time. " _Spasibo_ ", he said, "I work for long time on that one".

Alfred began pacing then, the top of his head brushing the canvas roof, trying to come up with some way to them out of there. Of course, it had stopped being about only getting himself out a long time ago. An old remnant of his desperate need to be some kind of a hero, he supposed. First, he started thinking simply, but soon, as they always did, his plans got wild and out of hand. "Now if I can just..." He mumbled to himself. Then, to Braginsky. "Quick! I need a pair of pliers and a hedgehog!"

"Or we could just cut canvas open", he said, raising his eyebrows, the switchblade glinting in his hand.

"Oh. Or that".

Braginsky made quick work of the canvas, the knife gliding through it with a loud whirring noise that set Alfred on edge. "Wait!" They heard the Gunner's voice from outside. "I thought I heard something". Alfred's eyes widened, and Ivan quickly hid the knife. This really wasn't good. If the Gunner came in and noticed the hole in the canvas, then they were dead. But there had undeniably been the noise of something ripping. Alfred had to draw attention away from the side of the Creation.

As the vehicle stopped, Alfred pulled off his hat and looked at it fondly. Sacrifices would have to be made. Gritting his teeth, unused to normal human strength, he ripped the bill of the hat. The Gunner opened the flap, looking in at the two of them. "Dude! You tore my hat! You bastard!" Alfred exclaimed

"What's going on in here?" The Gunner asked, still suspicious.

"This asswipe just ripped my hat!" Alfred whined, trying his best to sound convincing. Of course, just then the wind decided that it was the perfect time to begin blowing against the side of the Creation, the hole in the canvas flapping open.

Alfred grinned guiltily as the Gunner's eyes widened. "You two are trouble", he said, pointing his rifle at them.

" _Da"._ But too slow, because Braginsky had already clunked his large fist down on the Gunner's head, who promptly collapsed, making a large bang as his metal gun bumped against the frame of the Creation.

"What was that?" One of the other men asked from the cab. They didn't have any time to check, however, because Alfred and Braginsky were already running, trying to get as far away from the Creation as was possible, Alfred shouting in elation the whole way.

"Would you maybe _shut up, Comrade Genocide_?" Asked Braginsky. "I think my ears may be bleeding".

"Whatever you say, Commie Bastard. Whatever you say".

Alfred grinned. He was safe. At least for the moment. He still had one trick up his sleeve, and he was glad that he hadn't had to use it up till now. Because if this Bastard decided to try anything, he still had the gun in his boot.

* * *

 _I didn't really know how to end it, which usually isn't a problem for me. Hmm..._

 _Anyway, I will return with the France oneshot very soon, and then on to the next multi-chapter story at the end of the summer! See you all then!_


End file.
